


lay awake, sleep awake, stay awake

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (It's about Bro's training but it's so indirect you probably can't tell), Anxiety, Denial, Emotional Manipulation, Mother Mother - Sleep Awake, pre sburb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 07:47:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4911187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>dave has nothing to be but prepared.</p>
<p>Based on Mother Mother's 'Sleep Awake'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lay awake, sleep awake, stay awake

A glooming atmosphere hung between the walls, washing everything with a black light.

Small hints of aquamarine added, blinds picked up from the street only doing this much to cover the damaged window; the desire to have it any different was distant. 

If it weren't for birds nitpicking, choosing his room of all the ones underneath, the blinds wouldn't exist. They damaged his eye sight, improved the danger and the unwanted surprise.

_Can't afford it,_ he would have said, if anybody dared to ask, _need to be ready for when shit goes down._

Nobody did.

_Lay awake._

There was a form, an easily overlooked body letting the sheets sprawl half on the floor, headphones stuck somewhere inbetween. 

Temptation wanted to grab after both at once, but he knew better; comfort was a blessing, a rare exception. Nights weren't built for things alike.

Music would clog up his ears, his mind. He needed both to survive, and to function. 

Every song was a lullaby that never brought him sleep, only daydreams. It was all harsh, constant rhythm, no text, no meaning, but something he felt safety from. 

Safety wasn't what he needed, not right then. Not ever.

Consistency was his key, to a lock impossible; if a beat or a single movement was out of place, it ruined everything completely.

Nobody understood.

_Dubstep is awful,_ it had once been mentioned, in a far pesterlog, _it's just someone deciding to randomly slap sounds of a microwave and screeching chalk on a good beat, like they're doing a charity._

He and John had argued.

_I sleep awake._

Limbs were hanging uselessly from his sides, scrawny, tense, scarred, tired, but prepared. 

Nothing allowed to show signs of life, muscels didn't twitch, lungs didn't breathe, not properly. Slow, in, out. In, out. That, and his thoughts, lonely, heartbeat trailing after.

Silence wore him down, as it always did. 

His imagination, on the other hand, was a flickering change of impossible sceneries, scenarios that meant to serve as distraction, but left a weight he didn't carry. 

It was absurd to endure and maintain; the tension that was never clarified in his mind. Just a repellent awareness in his gut that became normal and obnoxious all the same.

He wasn't doing anything the law would sue him for, and yet, it felt like dreams were enough to.

_Nights suck,_ he had thought, told his keyboard soon after, _They're boring for everyone who's planning on a working liver for their sweet sixteenth._

Rose had suggested sleep, reading, anything. There had been disagreement; and a listening shoulder nonetheless.

It was hopeless.

_I sleep with one eye on the bedroom door._

A part of him meant to close his eyes and fall into long needed rest, another aimed to keep living instead.

Patience was his lesson, from evening to sunrise, until the sun dawned again. 

It was a myth when he said it wasn't absolutely antagonizing, laying there, his mind boring him out with nothing to do than be ready ready ready, for what, he never quite knew, and anx- _No,_ he lied to himself before that word became any more real, _that's not it. You're just pretty fucking bored. Don't entertain yourself with shit you know you're too strong for._

Then again, his whole being weaved itself out of lies. His features, his humor, his interests, even each genuine movement seemed like it was straight out white lies.

Laying down felt unreal.

Sleep at all felt unreal, and so was every single dream he spent. It didn't matter if they were ones during the night, or the future he painted for himself.

They didn't matter. They never would.

So there he laid, too awake, without warmth or comfort to rock him into restless sleep, only a gaze to the black he assumed his door to be, too many instincts accompanying him every night, every day, by his every living breath.

_What would you get out of dreams?_ , he had questioned, told her, _all they do is make you go loco with the desire to either marry and fuck Obama's kids, or they kill your common sense. You can never choose._

Jade had wondered, longed for reasons; her cheery manner was endearing and calming in a way unexplainable, but she had not understood.

Neither had he.

_~~The other on the cake.~~_

There was no cake.


End file.
